


not a week or a month, but a season

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Future Fic, Getting Together, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22713109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: Mike has done his very best to respect Ginny's wishes, and he's going to keep on respecting them, even when he's no longer her teammate.
Relationships: Ginny Baker/Mike Lawson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 156
Collections: Pitch Valentine's Gift Exchange 2020





	not a week or a month, but a season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msdoomandgloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdoomandgloom/gifts).



When the door to the trainer’s room creaked open and then decisively shut ten minutes into his post-massage nap, Mike was surprised. 

He’d expected an interruption at least seven minutes ago.

He didn’t bother to open his eyes or acknowledge the interloper; he was sure he’d be hearing plenty in just a moment.

Only, quiet continued to reign, just the hum of the ice maker in the corner and the soft tread of sneakers against the carpet.

Mike frowned and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw—because of course it was; he’d known, or maybe just hoped like hell, ever since he heard the faint rattle of the doorknob—was Ginny. He’d already turned his face to her; Mike didn’t need anything so limited as sight to know where Ginny was. 

Still, that first glimpse was everything. 

She still hadn’t dressed for the game yet, her hair loose around her shoulders. Even all the way across the room, a frown on her face, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, Ginny Baker was the best, only, thing he wanted to see. 

Pushing down the rising swell that encompassed his feelings for Ginny—they didn’t have time for that—Mike sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the table. 

Apparently, a nap was not on the table this afternoon. 

It took Ginny a few more circuits of the width of the room, Mike’s eyes tracking every step, to acknowledge him. When she finally did, the utter hurt in her eyes felt like a fastball to the gut. Suddenly, the downturn of her mouth wasn’t just a mirror to the way she looked at every set of heat maps set before her. The arms folded tight across her chest weren’t a barrier between them; they were holding Ginny together.

His knuckles went white as he gripped the edge of the table, keeping his ass right where it was. Much as he might want to leap into action, go to Ginny and gather her up in his arms and hope like hell he would be enough to make it better in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he knew he shouldn’t. Not least because he had a sinking feeling he was at the root of this.

Well, what he’d just announced, at least.

Wherever the Padres ended up at the end of the season, at the bottom of the league or drenched in champagne and Bud Light, the Commissioner’s Trophy in their grasp, it would be Mike Lawson’s last. 

Of course, he was hoping for more of the latter than the former and had made that very clear to the unnaturally quiet clubhouse with a few—stirring, inspiring, if he did say so himself—prepared words to his teammates. As soon as he’d accepted enough applause, it was only his due, he’d booked it straight for Kiki rather than let anyone catch him and actually expect him to  _ talk _ about this decision. 

Maybe it made him a coward to drop that kind of bomb and then use his back and his knees (and his shoulder and his ankles and—) as an excuse to escape, but he’d had a long career of playing the hero. A little privacy wasn’t too much to ask. 

And yet, looking at Ginny, who’d just straightened her shoulders and set her full mouth in a stubborn line, the last thing Mike wanted was privacy.

It was a relief, then, when she finally came closer. Not as close as he might (did, would always) want, but near enough. Silently, still watching him and making no play to hide her hurt, she slid up onto the table opposite him. 

There was a long stretch of silence, and Mike found himself getting frustrated. He’d expected a fight, some yelling. He knew how to handle Ginny at her angriest, could match her flame for flame, shout for shout; it was the quiet where he always found himself in danger. It was too easy to fall into Ginny’s carefully guarded depths, soak in all the things about herself that she kept hidden away from everyone else. 

“Baker—”

“You’re retiring.”

It wasn’t a question—and privately, it hadn’t been for a long time—but Mike answered like it was. 

“Yeah.”

She nodded mechanically, her hands clasped between her knees. Still, her eyes on him were shrewd. “When?”

Mike knew she wasn’t asking about his last game. “Since last season.”

Something inside Ginny shuttered tight. If asked, Mike wouldn’t have been able to put his finger on what, exactly, it was, but one moment she was his pitcher and—goddamnit—his best friend, and the next, she was the Ginny Baker most people saw on TV. The two weren’t so different, she’d let her public persona settle and relax over the years, but Mike knew.

“Ginny,” he breathed, shutting off everything he knew that said he should stay right where he was. His feet hit the ground, and there weren’t even three steps separating them. Before he could take even one, her furious stare pinned him in place.

“Don’t,” she ground out.

Try as she might, that Ginny-Baker-Bot facade wasn’t holding together. 

Her chin didn’t so much as wobble, but there was no mistaking the bright anger in her dark eyes or the tight clench of her jaw making her dimples pop in anything but joy. 

This was what he’d been expecting. This, he could manage. In the long run, it might even be easier.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Mike demanded, “Why? You gonna deck me, Baker?”

“Maybe,” she threw back. For all she’d tried, Ginny’d still never gotten an actual MLB player to take a swing at her, and Mike wasn’t going to be the first. “You’d deserve it.”

He snorted. “For retiring? You’d think that’d make you take it easy on me.”

“If I’d had a year to get used to the idea—” 

Clearly, Ginny’s fury ran out of steam for all she’d started off boiling hot. Her shoulders slumped, and she shook her head, looking lost. Mike wasn’t sure if he’d be welcome any nearer, but damn, did he want to be.

When she looked at him, the brightness of her eyes down to more than just frustration or the glare of the lights, the dam broke. 

Reservations in tatters on the floor, he closed the space between him and Ginny. The person he knew best in the world, his last thought before he went to sleep and wanted in every waking minute had tears in her eyes, and that was unacceptable. 

His arms wrapped around her, and her body fit familiarly against his. Mike, at one point, might have tried to catalog every embrace—every post-win celebration and arm slung around shoulders and hug as they parted ways at the end of an evening and anything in between—he got out of Ginny Baker, but three years in, he’d finally accepted that they weren’t coming to an end any time soon. Still, he relished each, probably more than he should.

Definitely more than he should. Because he knew Ginny’s feelings on the situation. Had burned her exact words into his brain so every time his goddamn heart (or the way she smiled or threw a sinker past an unsuspecting batter or danced to the awful music Margolis made them listen to on his start days; but really, weren’t they all one and the same?) threatened to get away from him, he’d have something tying him to reality.

It was an offhand comment she’d made sometime during her second season. Some feverishly speculated upon relationship with a Laker had fizzled, leaving some of their teammates more disappointed than she’d been. 

“I mean, if they want courtside tickets so much, they can go out with the NBA player!” she’d fumed from her seat on one of the stationary bikes. Mike had been her only audience, most others who wandered into the cardio suite quickly making themselves scarce. “Why should I do it for them? It’s not like I don’t have enough on my plate with conditioning and moving and keeping my spot on the team!”

“Your spot’s not going anywhere,” Mike had observed dryly, but Ginny just barreled on. 

“I mean, what’s the use? Go out with someone just because my teammates want tickets or backstage passes or to meet an Avenger?”

“Well, that and—”

“Right. Because going to an overly fancy restaurant or a crowded party with someone I barely know is so romantic. Definitely the right way to fall in love.” Ginny snorted, her feet nonetheless pedaling furiously. “Thank God I don’t have time for any of it.”

On his own bike, on the other hand, Mike had frozen. His knee nearly locked up, he’d stopped so quickly. Ginny’s words had echoed and reverberated through his skull, disappointment ringing in their wake.

He’d known they weren’t talking about that night last season, but he’d thought—he’d been so sure—that didn’t mean they weren’t thinking about it. Because he hadn’t been able to stop. The memory of Ginny’s warmth so close to him, the smell of her perfume clinging to his clothes, her lips half a breath away; it all kept replaying in his mind, a promise of what could, would, be. For the sake of Ginny’s career, for his own peace of mind, he’d been happy to wait. Happy to build their friendship, uncover everything he could about her because everything he learned just made him want her more.

But, apparently, it wasn’t a matter of waiting.

Feeling as though a wave had just knocked him from his feet and swept him out to sea, Mike had managed to start pedaling again. He remembered forcing a grin to his face and saying, “Well, you better have time to run the Yankees batters, Baker, ‘cause I don’t like the odds of Judge against your fastball.”

Her answering smile, all dry, pink lips and dimples, had been enough to get him treading water once more. 

Which was what he’d been doing ever since.

Now, hoping to give her the same lifeline—well, something similar—Mike gave Ginny’s back a gentle rub.

“It’s only been nine months,” he said, half joking, half hoping it would actually help. 

Ginny’s broken laugh against his shoulder wasn’t comforting in the least. The way her fingers curled into the snug fabric of his undershirt, tugging him closer, was. His eyes slid shut at the sensation. Oh, he’d be remembering that. 

“Nine months you didn’t tell me,” she accused, slightly muffled.

“C’mon. You had to know this was coming. How many times have you told me you’re fitting me for a walker?”

Ginny pulled back, and Mike tried hard to ignore the swoop of disappointment in his gut but loosened his grip on her anyway. 

“I mean, I knew you weren’t going to play forever,” she said, raking a hand through her hair and leaving it wild and ruffled. Just because he’d never get the same chance didn’t mean he couldn’t admire the effect. “I just didn’t think about what that meant.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, easing himself onto the table beside Ginny if only because it was harder to stare if he was sitting next to her. “It means that I’m getting out before I break a hip.”

“That’s not funny. You’re not that old.”

“I’m old for a ballplayer,” he returned, not loving the qualifying “that” out of her mouth. “And most of my joints are older. It’s better to quit while I’m ahead. Or at least while they won’t have to wheel me off the field. This way, I get to actually enjoy retirement.” 

Ginny huffed impatiently, and Mike couldn’t exactly blame her. He was going to miss the game like hell. It’d been his entire world for most of his life; he wasn’t sure what his days were going to look like without a steady cycle of workouts and travel and BP and ice baths. 

Ginny, apparently, had other things on her mind. 

“Yeah, you’ll have time to really appreciate all the groupies,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

Mike snorted. “Pretty sure the groupies don’t go for washed up retirees.”

“You’re not washed up.”

“No, that comes with retirement.”

Ginny elbowed him in the ribs.

“Hey, no attacking the elderly!”

“Shut up,” she groaned, leaning against his side. For the millionth time in three years, Mike felt his heart stutter. He breathed through the moment, trying to capture it to remember when Ginny inevitably moved on, a new catcher behind home plate and a new teammate taking up her time.

Mike had given up on pretending he wasn’t wholly, deeply, irrevocably, agonizingly in love with Ginny Baker just as much as he’d given up on hoping she’d feel the same for him. After all, she’d said it; she didn’t have time to fall in love, not when she was breaking barriers and making a statement with her every action. 

He’d respected her decision. 

Mostly. Mike was smart enough to know that part of him would never stop trying to make Ginny Baker fall in love with him, but he’d cut all the obvious shit out of his routine. He’d stopped making snarky comments about the guys she dated. Well, more accurately, the guys she was photographed with at whatever party or charity gala she was ever invited to. He’d stopped scaring off her prospects at the bars, though he’d admittedly turned a blind eye to the fact that other Padres had stepped in to fill that vacancy pretty quickly. He’d stopped trying to angle for another round of that conversation that they absolutely weren’t having as long as they were teammates.

He hadn’t stopped spending time with her, of course. Even before she’d said it, Ginny had been his best friend; he wasn’t going to give that up just because he wanted more and she didn’t.

But he couldn’t help but worry. How much of that was just a product of how much time they had to spend together? Hours poring over heat maps and spray charts, discussing the finer points of pitch sequencing, coaxing some actual heat out of her fastball, it would’ve made friends out of anyone. 

Mike wasn’t ready to cede that spot in Ginny’s life to someone else.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, quiet but more than loud enough to break into his thoughts.

_ Not as much as I’ll miss you _ , was his immediate reaction. Instead, he replied, “You’ll hardly know I’m gone. I still live here.”

Ginny just shook her head where it practically lay upon his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

He did.

“You know what I’m really going to miss?” she asked, and it was like they were belly-up to that bar once more, mostly warm beers in their hands and pure possibility perfuming the air between them. Except now, they were three years wiser, three years closer, seated on a single therapy table, nearly hip to hip, their hands just a whisper apart.

“What?” Mike managed to croak.

Ginny hummed in thought. She hadn’t learned to carry a tune, but Mike didn’t care. He wanted too badly to hear what she was about to say. 

“Arguing about  _ Star Wars _ . And the way you cannot keep a plant alive to save your life. And trying to get you to tweet about fake memes.”

Mike looked down at her. “Those are fake?”

“And definitely your complete belief in everything, even when it's absolutely ridiculous, that I say,” she laughed.

He chuckled along, but his mind was racing. There was certainly a running list of things he loved about Ginny Baker—the fact that she hummed Katy Perry to stretch and Kesha to lift and Beyoncé for cardio, the way she looked wearing his sweatshirt she denied having stolen, the smile she saved for him—but that felt too much like leaving his heart open for her to hand back.

“All right,” Mike said. “How about this: I’ll miss the way you always order way too much takeout and then almost never eat the leftovers. And I’ll miss waiting around for you to find something that you ‘swear was here just a second ago.’ And, honestly, you’re one to talk about black thumbs; I’ve seen you kill a cactus—”

Ginny was already giggling helplessly, leaning her weight solidly against his side to hold her up, and— 

Mike couldn’t believe how much he loved her. More than he had that September night the first season she’d been called up. More than when he’d watched her go down four outs away from a no-hitter and then battle back to earn her position in the rotation again. More than when she’d beaned Falcone for a second time just because. More than when he’d watched her sign her name, face reverent and joyful, on the inside of the Green Monster. 

If he loved her more today than he ever had before, then maybe he could be braver than he ever had, too. 

“And, mostly,” he said, drawing up the courage to say the thing he’d danced around so many times, “I’m going to miss falling more in love with you with every inning that goes by.”

At his side, she froze. Her laughter faded until there was utter silence between them.

Then, she sat up, pulling her perfect warmth away from him, and Mike knew he’d fucked up. His mouth ran away with him trying to gloss over it, make it better, salvage this before it was completely ruined. 

“Fuck, Ginny. I’m sorry. I know we’re not talking about this. I know. But—”

“Mike.”

He finally looked down at her. 

Her brow was furrowed in confusion, not anger. Her mouth was ajar in surprise, not pity. 

“You love me?”

The wonder, the utter amazement, in Ginny’s voice was more than Mike could take. He laughed. Sharp and loud, he laughed, his head tipping back to let it all out. When he finally got himself under control, he looked at Ginny with all the fondness he usually felt but couldn’t let out on the surface. It clearly helped smooth over the annoyance of being laughed at. 

“Of course I love you. Ginny, I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

“But you—” She frowned, and Mike couldn’t help but reach out and cup her face, rubbing his thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. Ginny, at least leaned into his touch, though she didn’t stop frowning. “You didn’t act like it.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Because we’re teammates, and we’re not talking about it.”

“Acting’s not talking, Lawson.”

“Oh, so you wanted me to keep flirting with you while neither of us could do anything about it?”

Ginny shrugged, but a smile was tucked away into the corner of her mouth. Mike, not for the first time, was seized with the urge to kiss it away; this time, at least, he thought he actually had a shot at getting his wish. 

“Well, I would’ve been happy to go on flirting with you, Baker, but—”

“But what?” 

Mike sighed, but he figured it was better to get it all out in the open now. “You said you didn’t have time for romance or dating or…”

Ginny’s gaze turned inward as she thought back. When she finally alit on the moment, Mike watched as the realization registered on her face, making her luminescent.

She gave a rueful laugh. “The courtside seats?”

“You may have mentioned them.” 

Ginny nodded, biting her lip. Quickly, her amusement shifted to something softer, more uncertain. “Is that why you started acting like you’d moved on?”

“Did I?” he asked, shocked to hear that he’d managed to pretend so well. Whenever he’d shot commercials for the dealerships, he’d always needed about thirty takes.

Giving him a look that spoke volumes about how obvious the answer to his question was, Ginny didn’t give another reply. Instead, she said, “I thought you did. I thought maybe it was just— Not even a fling, but y’know. Something that passed for you.”

Mike studied her intently. He’d already had his day, his year, his  _ life _ made by the fact that Ginny wasn’t put off by the fact that he’d fallen for her. To ask for more, even when he was feeling surer and surer by the second that it could be his, felt entirely selfish. 

He’d been called worse. 

“So you admit there was something?” he prodded, needing a concrete answer.

She rolled her eyes. When it became clear Mike was going to wait as long as it took, Ginny huffed again. “Of course there was something. There was always something.”

“And is there still? For you?”

Ginny’s face tipped up to his. Waiting on bated breath, it was a dangerous sight, one that threatened to steal the air from his lungs. She was just so beautiful with her smooth, brown skin and dark, fathomless eyes. As familiar as she was—like the leather of his mitt against his palm, the tack of pine tar on his bat, the final stretch of dirt between him and home plate—she stunned him every time.

But then that dear, gorgeous face was coming closer, and all rational thought in Mike’s brain halted and gave way to one: he was kissing Ginny Baker. 

And he went on kissing Ginny Baker, getting his hands in her hair and enjoying hers on his shoulders and memorizing the feel and give of her lips and tongue to his. When he’d finally gotten his fill, for now, of her mouth, he moved onto new territory. And back to an old one.

“C’mon, Gin. Tell me,” he urged, working his way across her cheek to her jaw and neck, exploring every bit of skin she’d give him.

“Fine,” she grudgingly agreed, though the sigh she gave as his mouth closed over her earlobe undermined her tone. Her palm cupped his chin, and she tugged him back up to look him straight in the eyes.“I love you, Mike Lawson. Happy?”

“Very,” he replied even as he was pulling her in, his lips brushing once more against hers. 

It wasn’t until much later, long after Blip had finally drawn the short straw to come knock on the trainer’s room door to remind them that there was, in fact, a baseball game in the offing, and the game itself had been played through, that Mike’s thoughts turned back to that conversation they’d had so long ago. Would this day have come sooner if Ginny’d never said it or he hadn’t taken her so seriously?

They’d probably never know. But that wasn’t going to keep him from teasing her about it.

“So what happened to not having the time to fall in love?” Mike murmured, a grin that had only something to do with the fact that for the first time in his life, he was going to fall asleep with Ginny Baker in his arms playing across his mouth.

“For you,” she said, simply settling against his chest, “I’ll always have the time.”


End file.
